


Eyes on the Clock

by TheTiniestFish



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22270816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestFish/pseuds/TheTiniestFish
Summary: At the end of the world, Jon steps back through time. Perhaps the Knowing will save him this time. It never has before, but he can only hope.The important thing is Sasha is back, Martin isn't Lonely and Tim hasn't learned to hate him. Maybe this time, he can turn things around.Maybe Martin's optimism has rubbed off on him.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Melanie King, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims, Naomi Herne/Evan Lukas, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 146
Kudos: 877





	1. No Time Like The Present

“Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April 22nd 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.”

He takes in a long breath.

“Statement-”

Jon’s brow creases and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening for something.

“What is that noise-“

And just like that, Jonathan Sims is gone.

The Archivist slumps back against his seat, leather not yet torn by years of use (and misuse, considering the number of worms that fell upon it, burrowing and squirming and-). His head pounds with a pain like a thousand voices are hissing in his ear, talking over each other and cancelling each other out. It, he supposes, is rather like static. His hand gropes around on the desk, reaching for the lamp’s switch. 

There.

The darkness quietens the humming somewhat, the thrumm of knowledge and remembering and Knowing what is yet to come- what will never be real in that same way again. The memories will be helpful, but they are not strictly true. 

Martin is in the other room, making tea and thinking about his next unappreciated visit to his mother. He might not be the man that Jon knows yet, but the potential for that steel he grows is there. Jon quietly hopes that he will never have to see it, but perhaps with everything to come that would be too hopeful. 

Tim is dutifully carrying out his work, not knowing how he would have- might still meet his end, caught up in the destruction of the Circus. No, not if Jon can help it. He’s still himself, the trauma of his brush with the Stranger nothing more than a memory. He’s humming a little tune, unaware. That’s a relatively carefree bubble that Jon doesn’t want to burst. (A part of the Archivist wonders if he’ll be the one to take Tim’s statement this time around.)

Sasha- good, grief, Sasha is on the phone, pretending to be from some electricity company to gain access to important records. The irony of that small action, that stolen identity, is not lost on him. But she is there, and she is real and-

The Archivist is alone in his quiet dread, the only chronicle of that other time. An Archive, but not in the way that Elias had hoped. Not yet, anyway.

There is a chance that he may remain unmarked by the other Powers, here. Perhaps it is early enough that the others may still escape- but no. He knows- Knows that he is not that lucky. He is too far along the timeline for that, his co-workers (friends?) already caught in Jonah’s net, trapped down below the Institute. There’s only one way out now, and he shudders to think of it. How unsure he is of whether Tim would take it if he knew. How he doesn’t know what Sasha would do. Because he doesn’t know Sasha and-

-And his thoughts are running away with him again. Jon takes in a deep breath, counting the seconds, gathering his scrambled thoughts. In and out. In and out. In and out. Just like he had seen Daisy do, as she fought for sleep in that cot by the tunnels. Trying to drown out the roaring of the blood, the twitch of that need to chase and tear and kill and Hunt, taking down her prey, ending- 

-He takes another sharp breath. The Knowing comes too easily these days, and the exact feel of the Hunt is knowledge he knows he is better off without. He saw her, in those final months after the end of the world (after he ended the world). Despite his nature, his need to see and watch and Behold, he rather wishes that he didn’t.  
He goes to pick up his lighter from his desk, and it isn’t there. 

He turns on the light, and it still isn’t there.

He turns over a few documents that seem to be balanced on something, and sends the pile thudding to the floor, scattering paper everywhere and creating somewhat of a racket. He can’t find it in himself to be surprised when the door to his office creaks open and the concerned face of- God, is that Sasha?

He looks around, and almost chokes on his own breath. He knows it’s her. The long hair, the glasses, tall- he can recognise her, but not from his own recollection. Melanie described her once, frustrated with what he can only imagine seemed like gaslighting to her at the time. No wonder she was upset. But there are details there that he didn’t know, and he drinks them in hungrily. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail and there’s a pen in her pocket (chewed beyond all hope of usability) and she has that little dimple that she gets when she’s worried and- and- and-

-And her eyes are looking at him, somewhat bemused.

“You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Jon.”

A startled laugh escapes him. 

“I suppose, in a way…” He trails off. Sasha is staring at him with genuine concern.

“Jon?”

“You should probably get Martin and Tim, Sasha. You’re all going to want to hear this. You need to hear it.”

She gives him a long, searching look, then nods and steps out of the office as Jon takes a long, shuddering breath.

This’ll be one long day, he thinks to himself, and switches the tape recorder off.


	2. Time Will Tell

There is a long and empty silence as Jon finishes talking.

Then:  
“So, you’re saying this place is some kind of temple to an eldritch fear god?” 

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

“And the world is going to end in a few years?”

Jon looks away and down at his lanyard. It reads ‘Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist’ in black letters. When did he stop thinking of himself that way? He forces himself to look up.  
“I hope not. Not if we play our cards right.”

“And you, what, serve this thing?”

“Not this time. Not if I can help it.”

Tim is pacing back and forth across the corridor. It is, with Martin standing in the corner (as small as a six-foot-something man can make himself) and Sasha leaning against the wall, starting to feel rather crowded.

In the far reaches of his mind, Jon feels a headache begin to form in spite of the quiet pause that has fallen upon their group. He can almost hear the gears in their brains whirring, and has to stop himself from wondering what they could possibly be thinking- he focuses on how he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to see. He knows how easy it would be to reach out into that quiet and let the knowledge flood in.

Tim, of course, is the one to break that silence.  
“What- and I say this with the greatest respect, considering what you think you’ve been through- the fuck.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh.

“No, seriously Jon. I don’t even know if I believe you yet, because that is a hell of a lot to have unceremoniously dropped on you on a Tuesday morning,” he says, slumping against the wall, “Hell.”

Jon winces and looks to Martin, who suddenly seems to have a strong new interest in how many stripes there are on his tie. Of course. He feels selfish in that moment- he can’t rely on him like that, shouldn’t put that on him. Martin was a man forged in fire, and at the moment it’s just a spark on the horizon. He feels guilty for being so dismissive of him, considering all they went through together. But that hasn’t happened, and he shouldn’t have to do that for Jon. This isn’t the same person who had- He just needs time. It’s all so new, so strange, and he doesn’t know where his head’s at (except its exact latitude, longitude, and height above sea level. The Ceaseless Watcher is being oh-so-helpful today).

He glances over at Sasha, making the decision to deal with that mess of emotion later, and realises once more that he doesn’t know her. Her micro-expressions that he learnt to read over years of companionable complaining in the same job are illegible to him and oh that hurts, and he feels his face crumple. And he knows the exact moment Sasha puts two and two together, because it doesn’t take a genius to see her face fall as well, and her breath hitches in her throat.

“Jon, you didn’t say anything about me.”

“I know.” He turns away, afraid to meet her eye, and the irony of that isn’t entirely lost on him. Servant of the Beholding, afraid of being really, truly seen. There’s a certain poetry in that, he thinks, and then tries not to think of the Martin that had sent him onward, knowing with all his being that if they succeed he will either be changed beyond recognition, or never really be at all. The philosophy of it all is rather lost on Jon, when it all hurts the same.

Sasha reaches out to touch his shoulder, and he hates that he can’t help but flinch away. She drops her hand.  
“I’m not there, in that future of yours, am I,” she says, and she says it not as a question but with finality and dread.

It takes a long time for Jon to answer, and she waits there patiently as Tim paces and Martin stares at Jon with wide, fearful eyes.  
“…No. No, you’re not.”

The terrible silence that echoes down the dusty halls hangs heavy in the air for all too long. It chokes and fills Jon’s lungs with resignation and dread until-

Until the silence is broken. This time, Tim is quiet, not knowing quite what to say. No, it is Martin that puts that crack in the despondency that presses up against their chests. His back is straightened now, his hands balled into fists and there is a small bit of that steel in his voice, like a glimmer in the darkness.  
“Well, I suppose we had better fix that.”

And for the first time in months, Jon lets himself truly smile.

“I suppose we had.”


	3. Clocking Out

It is, all things considered, somewhat more complicated than Martin’s optimism would suggest. The tunnels have protected them from Jonah’s watchful eye thus far, but the fact that Jon knows they exist and lead his assistants down there is cause enough for suspicion. The four of them take no chances, continuing business as usual, reorganising (although with a little less competency than the first time around- Jon figures that short of throwing the people he is close to at Jonah’s ritual, following Gertrude’s example in this is not likely to hurt their efforts). 

It’s all rather quiet. Martin hasn’t properly followed up on Carlos Vittery’s statement, which seems to have been “misfiled” somewhere in the Archives. It’s such a shame they won’t be able to learn more. Imagine what they could have learnt if they knew which basement to check. The tragedy of it all, really.

It’s all rather quiet, but Jonah is still there, watching them. Jon can feel it now. The sheer weight of it, the Eye’s gaze as he had climbed out of the tunnels, had almost tripped him up. He just about managed to duck his head and keep going, but he’s sure Jonah knows he felt something at the very least. Jon constantly catches himself thinking about how much easier this would have been if he’d played his cards closer to his chest, but paranoia and mistrust between the archives staff had played a major part in getting things to the state they had. 

He fumbles with the tape recorder as he tries not to think. He turns over a statement as he doesn’t think about how he didn’t tell Tim about the Circus. How light on the details of the Unknowing he had been. He doesn’t want to hurt Tim like that, when the Unknowing will fail with or without their intervention. If he tells him, there’s every chance that things will go the same way, and Jon cannot under any circumstance take that risk. He doesn’t want him to get hurt (doesn’t want to lose him again). It’s not selfish. That’s what he tells himself, anyway, as he picks up the statement and tries to read. 

“Statement of-“

The door swings open.

“Oh for the love of- Tim, do you know what knocking is?”

The voice that answers him is unequivocally not Tim. Sasha is standing in the doorway (her eyes are hazel, and her shirt is half tucked in).  
“Jon, I know you’re busy and all that, but we- not Martin, he says he has something on tonight, something about his mum- were going to go to the pub in a bit, after we finish up. You up for that?”

“I, uh…” He gestures at the paper strewn across his desk.

“Well, of course, finish up. I meant in something like half an hour.”

Oh. Thinking back, he does vaguely remember an invitation not entirely unlike this, way back when. He had stayed behind, and the next statement hadn’t recorded properly on his laptop and was oh-so-interesting. He had spent the night in the archives, researching and trying again to make anything but that tape recorder work. He had given in, of course. Back then he certainly wouldn’t have even thought about taking that offer, but maybe it would be good to get out of here.

“That sounds… That sounds good, Sasha.”

She smiles and gives him a thumbs up as she twirls out the room and he hears the crash of a door opening.  
A cry of “Tim, oh my god!” can be heard from the other end of the archives.

He smiles, stacks his statements into neat little piles and ignores the sharp hunger that rises in his gut.


	4. Tea Time

Martin doesn’t know what to think as he potters about the break room, so he puts the kettle on and retrieves his tin of teabags from their position on the top shelf. He opens the fridge and takes out the milk, and notes how low it is- he’ll have to pick up some more from the shops, maybe tomorrow on the way in.

The small routine of making tea usually helps him calm down from his increasingly frustrating attempts to find any kind of useful information on the statements Jon sends his way. Yes, the tea helps. It calms him down. He’s calm.

The door creaks open and he jumps, swilling a little water onto the counter top as he glances nervously around and a rather sheepish voice cuts through the silence.

“Sorry Martin. I can come back later?”

Ah. Okay. It’s just Jon, probably here to use his awful instant coffee. The coffee machine broke last week, and honestly it might never be fixed. That is until Tim makes a big enough fuss, he supposes. He made an absolute stink when the tap in the break room kept dripping, to the point that Elias heard about it. It really was something to behold. He and Sasha had spent hours getting no work done, having loud conversations about how terrible the instant coffee was, in the hallway in front of Elias’ office. Honestly, they probably should have caught on to the whole “impossible to get fired” thing much, much earlier than they had. It’s honestly a little embarrassing that they had to be told by a literal time traveller, considering everything they’ve been up to. The time traveller that is slowly edging back through the door as Martin thinks. Oops.

“Oh- no, it’s fine, don’t worry. I’m just making tea, if you want a cup?”

Jon nods awkwardly and tips his mug of- how long has that been sitting there, unwashed? It’s honestly disgusting. Martin makes a mental note to check in on Jon more. To make sure he’s doing okay- and importantly grab his mugs before they get- He can’t quite stop the exasperated “Really, Jon,” that escapes him. 

He’s rather quiet about it, and Jon really shouldn’t have heard that. But ah, Jon most definitely heard it, going by the small, sad smile that breaks across his face. He tries to hide it, but his hair really isn’t long enough for that as it hangs down the sides of his face. As he turns away, though, Martin can almost see his eyes still there, an afterimage hanging in dimly lit space. It is for lack of a better word, spooky.  
He grabs another mug, and puts a teabag in that one as well, as the kettle finally whistles.

Jon hates that word. “Spooky”. He’s sure if he voiced his thoughts he’d get a lecture. “The Magnus Institute is not a well respected organisation, so we must hold ourselves to higher standards” or something of that kind. No room for colloquial terms like “spooky”. Except, he wouldn’t, would he? Or rather, there’s no way to know. The man Martin knows is gone, replaced by this man with years of supernatural experience under his belt. He’s probably gotten over things like “spooky” by now. He’s changed.

He pours the water into the mugs almost by muscle memory. It’s a small thing, but making tea for people has certainly helped him to get on with his colleagues, despite his lack of… knowing what the hell he’s actually doing. He seemed to be doing alright, but Jon hadn’t appreciated his efforts. It’s downright unnerving, how many smiles Jon shoots his way, tired or otherwise. It’s almost like he’s been replaced, and he shudders as his thoughts momentarily turn to Sasha. God, he hopes they don’t have to ever deal with that thing. He tries not to think about it- if you don’t want to think about pink elephants, think about something else instead. Think about tea.

He pours his milk in his tea, and dumps in the (frankly obscene) amount of sugar that Jon takes, and stirs.

Neither of them really know what to say, so Martin gets an awkward “Thank you” as Jon takes his cup with those hands that just for a moment seem so worn and scarred, even when Martin can see no blemishes, no holes, no burns. He can’t see any of those things. But when Jon turns his head, it’s like he’s seeing double because there’s no way Jon has that many eyes.

As Jon turns to leave the room, there it is again. That strange afterimage, like the air itself is staring at him. Or maybe, he thinks, a little like the spots when you’ve been staring at the sun too long. He blinks twice, and the effect is gone.

It’s probably nothing to be worried about. Not with everything else. Comparatively, it’s fine.

He knows, even as he thinks it, that he’s only fooling himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta readers or editing we die like men.


	5. Time's a Wasting

Jon’s been looking at Sasha strangely. She can feel his eyes follow her from his office, behind two walls. He hasn’t explained what happened to her in detail- but he’s not watching any of the others the way he does for her, cataloguing the minutiae of her existence. It’s- it’s a lot. She really, truly tries not to think about it. How bad it must have been, what happened to her. How much it must have hurt.  
Sasha isn’t one to sit and wallow in her feelings though. She gets to work. Her goal: devising the worst possible filing system. She’d taken a few online classes when she realised how woefully unprepared she was for the job, and now they were being put to good use. Namely, in the list of do’s and don’ts she had compiled. She was, of course, running off the don’ts. 

Well, she had been, originally. At the moment, she was putting statements into randomly coloured files and organising them in a spectrum. Martin had been in to help, and the archives had started to look that bit more colourful.

Tim was no help at all. He had, upon seeing Sasha’s new filing system, burst into uproarious laughter and hadn’t been able to stop for ten minutes straight. Tim had then put in a request for various visuals, including pride flags and smiley faces on the shelves, then left, still laughing. Jon had really truly smiled at that, through the door in his office. Sasha had seen it through the window. She didn’t see him smile often, so it was good to see. The whole archives coming together in the creation of the filing system from hell.

Jon was behind her right now. She was suddenly acutely aware of his eyes boring into her back, and as she turned her desk chair he glanced away. How did he move so quietly? He had almost reached her desk by the time she’d noticed him.

“Hi, Sasha.” He seems almost careful about it- not knowing quite what to say. 

“Hi?” Sasha swivels her chair to the side a little and closes her laptop.

“Are you alright? You’ve been lasering holes in my back all day. Something’s definitely up. ” 

Jon looks hesitant, like he’s checking for something she can’t see, but she smiles at him and he relents.  
“Not Them- do you know the changeling myths?”

“Where a baby is replaced with a fairy child? Yeah.”

“The thing that… it replaces people. It takes their identity. It doesn’t adopt their characteristics, change its mannerisms, what it looks like- it doesn’t do any of that. It- when it took you, it changed our memories. How could we know it wasn’t you? All our memories were screaming at us that it was. In our minds, that was what you had always been.”

The blood drains from her face.

“Christ. That’s… Oh, no, that’s why you kept looking at me like that, isn’t it? Like I was a stranger and you couldn’t read me. I was just… overwritten.” 

Jon looks apologetic and so deeply sad all at once.  
“I want to get to know you again. It isn’t like you know me all that well anymore either, I suppose. It’s been too long for that, and too much has happened. I’ve changed too much,” he says, and the air fills with static, with shapes that can’t quite be eyes, as if to demonstrate.

Sasha can’t quite stop herself from shuddering, but she hates how Jon flinches at her reaction. It’s at that exact moment she firmly decides she doesn’t care what he is now, and makes an attempt to salvage the conversation.

“I’d like to get to know you too, Jon.” She slips into a mischievous grin. “You still up for archives pub night on Friday? I hear there’s a quiz.”  
She almost laughs at the affront that sparks across his face.

“Sasha James, are you suggesting I use my powers, bestowed upon me by an evil fear entity, intent upon twisting our world into a factory of terror, to win a bottle of wine?”

She shrugs, the angelic picture of innocence.   
“You said it, not me.”

There it is. A real, genuine grin breaks across his face. Score.  
“It’s good to know the real Sasha James is a shameless cheat.”

She mock-gasps.  
“I have shame! But I know the owners, and I happen to know the prize is something quite good this week.”

“I’m not going to use my powers for pub quiz,” he asserts, but a sly smile creeps across his face. “However, I happen to be quite good at these things anyhow. That bottle is as good as ours.”

Sasha claps him on the back as she moves to get up and grab her lunch.   
“That’s our Jon.”


	6. Time to Get a Watch

Jonah is- he isn’t worried. He is concerned. Concerned at the speed at which Jon seems to be going through real statements at a frightening pace and the way he seems to be able to pick them out of the chaff of false statements. Jonah isn’t sure how he’s doing it, and honestly Jon is doing… A little too well. At this rate he’ll be very powerful far, far too soon. He’s only got one mark, and if Jonah doesn’t do something now, he’ll know what’s going on before he’s even got a second. 

On top of that, these past few weeks, his archives staff have been… strange. He had chosen competent researchers to make up the team, hard-working people who, despite any real qualifications for what they were doing, threw themselves into their work. But almost overnight, the effort they put into everything they did, the care towards their jobs- it seems to have utterly vanished. They’re either all trying to get fired, have all collectively suffered a mental break, or they know something.

After weeks of watching and waiting, Jonah sighs, straightens his tie, and goes to find out what his archives staff have really been up to.

As he descends the stairs, he hears a loud swearing, and someone hitting the printer with great force. It’s Tim. How lovely.

“Ahem.”

Tim jumps.

“Did that printer do something to you, Mr. Stoker?” He asks, and oh it is worth it to watch him squirm. But somewhere in his eyes, Jonah catches a flash of genuine fear. Interesting. What does he know?

Tim regains his composure, an easy smile asserting itself.  
“What brings you down here, to the dark and general dinginess of our humble archives?” 

Jonah smiles.  
“Oh, simply checking in on our new Head Archivist. It’s been a few weeks and I wanted to know how he’s been settling in,” he says. Then he notices the rainbow coloured shelves and a look of displeasure crosses his face. Even Gertrude hadn’t been so obnoxious about her filing.

“He seems to be making himself right at home.”

Tim looks at the shelves and back at Jonah, and he looks proud.  
“Oh, that? Sasha thought it was a little dark down here, thought she’d brighten the place up. The filing is barely worse than it was before, considering what a mess the last person made. What was her name again?”

“Ms. Robinson. I don’t believe you ever had the pleasure.”

“Nah. What happened to her, anyway? Did she retire?” There’s a familiar sharpness to Tim’s gaze. He’s seen it many times before, staring out from the depths of her archives.

“She disappeared.”

“Hmm.” Tim is watching him, calculating, but doesn’t say anything more. The easy smile had fallen off his face, and he was utterly inscrutable. 

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Just thought we should know who we inherited this mess from.”

He’s not getting anywhere with this. Jonah is a patient man, but there are limits, and he cannot afford not to know. And so, he Looks, peeling back the layers of Tim’s mind, his memories. When they go dull and difficult to see, he knows he’s hit the jackpot. He pulls, unravelling the thread of consciousness to its end, drinking everything in greedily. After what feels like hours, he lets go. 

He’d never admit it, but the whole thing leaves him both exhilarated and truly shaken. His plan had worked so thoroughly that his Archive couldn’t stop it without tearing the world apart and starting anew- and that Archive was standing in the next room over, with every little detail of Jonah’s plan inside that head of his.  
“I see.”

Tim is on the floor, reeling and trying to piece together the tattered fragments of his mind, putting everything back in the right place from where Jonah had left them strewn around.  
A complication, that’s all. But what a complication it is. 

Considering the noise Tim is making, Jonah isn’t all that surprised when Jon rushes in, followed closely by Sasha and Martin. A full house. Good. He won’t have to repeat himself with them.

Jon is glaring daggers at him, and he can feel the Beholding’s power prickling at the edges of his mind.   
“Step away from him.”

“Of course.”

He does so at his own leisure, but as he settles he smiles.  
“I do have to ask, Jon. You can’t possibly have gotten to the power you wield without… Hearing a few stories,” he says, a look of false concern crossing his face, “When did you last feed, I wonder.”

Jon wavers for a moment, glancing back at Sasha and Martin, then down at Tim on the floor.   
“I-”

Tim gets up clutching his head, leaning against the wall as he does so.  
“Well, that fucking sucked.”

Jon looks at Tim guiltily, and Jonah’s grin widens.  
“You’ll have to feed sometime, Jonathan.”

“I…” Jon looks a little lost, but then a look of resolution comes across his face. “I suppose I will.”

Jon’s eyes darken as they grow sharp, and Jonah realises he’s made a mistake. This is not the Jon he knows, with just a few more years under his belt. This is the Archive, fully realised and powerful.

“But why hurt people when I have so much right in front of me?”

The Archive grins, and it doesn’t ask. It Takes.

Gertrude had compelled him once. He had seen how it had left a bitter taste in her mouth, how she winced as she did it. She had been oh-so-worried about staying human, and her power was, in contrast to everything else about the woman, soft and weak. The compulsion had left a tingly feeling, soothing. It had felt almost nice, to give up that information.

This was not the same beast at all. His own words rebelled against him, ripping, tearing out of his throat, leaving shredded pieces of his will behind. The sheer force of it leaves him shocked, gasping for breath in both bodies, blinking and panting and yet he speaks and he speaks and there is nothing that can stop this, this power that he had wrought. That he had set upon the world. He would have called it magnificent, if it didn’t just hurt so damn much.

He keeps talking. He spills secret after secret- Smirke’s rituals, the founding of the Institute, the failed Watchers Crown. His plan for a grand ritual, a ritual to end all rituals- the Becoming of the dread powers. His plan for Jon. His overwhelming, all-consuming fear of the End. He tries to grit his teeth, get back some modicum of control, wrest his words and speech back from the Archive that demands it- but it is no use. He speaks, and speaks and speaks until he is thoroughly spent, and collapses onto the desk that lies before him, trying desperately to pull some air into his hollowed out lungs. The Archive hadn’t even let him pause for breath.

As he drags himself back into a cognisance of his surroundings, he is distinctly aware that the weight of the room’s attention is not on him anymore. No, it is firmly directed at Jon- who looks utterly sated and utterly inhuman. He barely has to move his head to see the image of Beholding- like an optical illusion. Move your eyes, and see the black dots on the grid between the squares. Move your eyes, and see them looking back at you a thousand times over. Move an eye then another eye and another and-

Jon’s attention flickers, and it’s like a thousand ton weight has been lifted. And Jonah finally notices why.

The entire room is focused on Jon. The air is thick with his assistants’ horror, filled with a tension one could slice. And the Archivist, who had watched him with all the weight of the universe, is squirming under the attention. 

Martin is the first to break the silence.  
“Jon?”

“Holy shit.”

And there’s Tim. His voice is flat, but its wavering betrays the fear behind it.  
“What was that?”

Jon is floundering, and Jonah takes that as a cue to straighten his tie and stand up. He realises his mistake almost immediately as Tim whirls around to face him.  
“Stay right there. I heard what you said, same as all the others did. You’re not going anywhere until we work out what to do with you.”

Martin looks like he’s going to be sick.  
“You’re not seriously suggesting-”

Tim sighs.  
“I don’t even know. He just reminds me of-”

“The Circus of the Other,” interjects Jonah.

“The who now?"

“What happened to your brother,” says Jon, an apology written across his face.

“What.” The question is cold and flat, and Tim's eyes are dark.

Jonah takes the initiative.  
“They’re planning their own ritual, you know. The Unknowing.”

Jon looks irritated.  
“Yes, yes, we know that. It won’t work, regardless of what actions we take. It’ll blow up in their faces, like the Dark’s ritual did.”

“I did my own ritual, down in old Millbank Prison. And, yes, it did fail. Rather spectacularly, in fact. But you’re forgetting one thing. The Watcher’s Crown did not achieve its intended purpose, but it did leave me so much more powerful than before- able to see anything I so wished. The Unknowing- well, I would wonder what that kind of thing would translate to, with such a different power. It isn’t a risk I feel particularly partial to taking.”

Even Jon doesn’t have an answer for that, but Tim has gone especially pale, and his hands are shaking.  
“How do we stop it?”

Hook, line and sinker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written a chapter this long before, send help.


	7. Off the Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ran out of time puns for the chapter titles. Oops.

Sasha catches Tim as he leaves the Institute that night. He’s left his jacket on his desk chair, and she’s worried. She knows Tim feels the cold as he takes the tube home, and he clearly isn’t thinking straight. Even Jon had been bundled up in scarves and gloves that night, as he left the office right on time (it’s little things like this that make her feel like she doesn’t really know him, but she can’t complain about him finally maintaining healthy work habits).

As she spots him turning the corner, she calls for him to wait up. He doesn’t really seem to notice. Quite frankly, even after Jon dropped the “I’m from the future, the world is royally screwed” bomb, Tim was still doing better than this. The despondency just isn’t like him. She’s seen him get angry, seen him stop himself from lashing out before, but the quiet worries her. The quiet is wrong.  
“Wait up!”

He doesn’t look at her as she falls into step next to him, but he looks up when she dumps his jacket over his head and strides ahead, leaving him to fumble with it and pull it off as he attempts to see where he’s going and identify the villain who had left him stumbling and blind. 

Said villain is sticking out her tongue at him and holding open the door to the front of the institute, whilst Rosie tries not to laugh behind her desk. Sasha blows her a kiss, which is caught with a wink, and Tim laughs.

Good.

“You should really look where you’re going,” she tells him very sincerely. She somehow manages not to crack up.

The edges of Tim’s mouth quirk up for a second, threatening a smile, but his face falls as he passes through the doorway.   
“I know what you’re trying to do, Sasha.”

“Oh really?” she says, linking arms with him, “ Because just then I was only trying to get your attention, for the talk that we really need to have. I know that you and Martin and Jon are absolute stars at repression and not talking about your feelings, but I’m not going to let this go. You need to talk about this.”

“About what, Sasha? About my boss going through my head like a book, then throwing it on the floor? Fuck, that's an awful metaphor for what he did.”

“I meant the Unknowing thing. Your brother,” she says with a sigh. “You’re my best friend, Tim, and I love you, but I can see you deflecting.”

His shoulders tense as he walks faster and she has to rush to catch up.

“I talked to Jon-”

“Oh yeah? What did he say?”

“He said that he’s made arrangements to stop the Unknowing, and you don’t have to worry. It should all be safe, although considering the book on plastic explosives open on his desk-”

“The who and the what now?” His eyes are wide.

“-So I’d say he has it properly handled. He says that’s how they sorted that last time, when I asked. You know, after all the sputtering and everything. He ran me over his plans, and they seemed rather solid. Honestly, the details of that ritual are messed up, but he seems to have it handled for once.”

“I wish he’d trusted us though. What else isn’t he telling us? It’s not like it’s actually safer not to know, considering the position we’re in.”

“I know, Tim. I’ve talked to him, and he’s putting the majority of it down in writing for us. He says the worst of it’s been aired by now, and the rest is just extra details. And I think he’s actually telling the truth this time.”

It’s silent for a moment, as they walk along the bank of the Thames. 

Then-

“But seriously. Plastic explosives?”

She laughs.  
“Yeah. Honestly, never thought they’d be a staple of the academic lifestyle we chose, but here we are. Eldritch monstrosities, sure. Terrible bosses? They're pretty much a dime a dozen and we can’t all be lucky. Death and arson? Not so much.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, Jon wanted me to tell you he has it all handled, and not to worry too much. But he has all the plans sorted if you want to look over them, which he seemed pretty sure you would. He said he’s tried playing his cards close to his chest before, and it ended with the end of the world, so he’s going to try the other thing this time.”

“Meaning talking to people?”

“We can only hope.”

There is a weary smile hanging across Tim’s face, which after the day they’ve had is probably the best she’ll get. She’ll take it.

“Any other words of wisdom?” Tim asks, humorously.

“He also said ‘Oh fuck, Melanie’, grabbed his phone and ran off, if you know what that’s all about,” she says with a shrug, and gets a half-hearted one in return.

“Not the foggiest.”

“One of life’s mysteries.”

“We’ll never know.”

They share a quiet laugh and Sasha takes that as a good cue to press on.

“So. After all that faff, you’re not going to want to cook, are you? Because I sure don’t want to, and I know for sure there’s a pizza out there with my name on. You?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Stop off at your place, grab an overnight bag, then grab cushions and blankets in front of the telly with a movie. My new roommate doesn’t move in until Monday- I’ve got a spare bed for now, and you’re welcome to stay the night. I can imagine you’d rather take your mind off all this, at least for the evening.”

Tim stops. His mind goes back to when Sasha’s aunt had been ill, and they’d spent the weekend with a few dozen blankets, some rather expensive ice cream and popcorn and marathoned the Sharknado movies. The perfect blend of quality and utter mind-numbing crap. It had been a good weekend, even in the midst of a bad situation. And he can see Sasha trying to do the same for him. Maybe it won’t solve his problems, but it can make them a little more bearable for one night. And maybe right now, that’s all he needs.

“I- thanks, Sasha.”

She swats him on the arm.  
“Anytime.”


	8. In Time

It’s been a long time since Georgie smiled at him like that, Jon catches himself thinking, as she opens up her door and spots him standing awkwardly on her front step and poking at a loose stone with his foot. She’s not quite grinning, but it’s close.

“Well, I’ll be. Jonathan Sims, initiating social contact. World’s gone mad.”

“Oh, you have no idea, Georgie.”

She gestures inside, then quickly shuts the door to almost a crack. He’s confused at first, then a knowing look spreads across his face as he hears Georgie telling The Admiral to “shoo, get back, you’re not getting out today, mister.” The little furry convict is doing his absolute best to get out. There’s nothing quite like a cat and a door that they’re absolutely not allowed to go through. After a moment of Admiral herding, Georgie finally reappears in the entryway. Covered in long orange fluff, he notes, and the edges of his mouth twitch.

“Sorry about that. You know how he is.”

Jon tries not to laugh, and fails, snorting a little from behind his hand.  
“I very much do.”

They both walk in, Jon right behind her, and as Georgie opens the door to the kitchen, he hears a loud indignant “mrp!” as The Admiral speeds out of the room, tail bushy and flicking back and forth in disgust. The Admiral is a very important cat, and this disgrace of being captured is unthinkable. He exudes an aura of “How Very Dare They” as he puffs himself up.

And, of course, the moment that Jon sits down, the Admiral is there. He is a very important cat and he will not be ignored, as he kneads quite thoroughly on Jon’s lap, before rolling over and flopping across him.

Georgie snorts.

“Somebody missed you.”

Jon resigns himself to the fate of giving the cat ear scritches. It’s a tough life.

“Yes, well I missed him too.”

Georgie puts her hand on her chest in mock betrayal.

“I knew it. Jonathan Sims doesn’t do social calls. You’re only here for the cat.”

“Damn,” he says, completely deadpan, “I’ve been caught.”

Georgie sprawls herself across the sofa, with a mug of hot chocolate that she’d obviously made a little while before. She doesn’t like her drinks piping hot, he recalls. And diluting hot chocolate with water is entirely blasphemy, of the highest degree. She’s told him that many times, and looked on in distress as he microwaved his tea back to temperature. That’s one habit he hasn’t lost. Martin had a similar reaction, the first time he saw, and the disapproval never really went away. He just hid it better.

“So, what’s been going on?” She asks.

Jon’s face turns serious, and much to The Admiral’s disgust, he stops petting the cat, who starts rubbing his face against Jon’s arm in an effort to restart ear scritches.

“It’s a long story, Georgie. I- I’m not entirely sure where to start.”

“So this isn’t entirely a social call, is it?” Her expression turns serious.

“No.”

“What did you do.”

He hesitates.

“I may have ended the world a little bit.”

Somewhere, a record scratches. Whatever she might have been expecting, it wasn’t that. She raises an eyebrow.

“Ended the world.”

“It got better?” Jon offers, “There’s more though. And I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Jon, you’re going to have to give me more than just- Do you have any proof of this? Last time we spoke… We didn’t end on good terms and, as glad as I am to see you actually come and talk, especially after that apology, you’ve been a right dick in the past.”

“It’s.. I hate bringing this kind of thing up, I’d rather leave it buried, but it’s rather related to your experience with the talking cadaver, before we met,” he says, watching her reaction carefully.

That catches her off guard.

“How did you-”

“You told me. Will tell me. Told me in the future that’s not going to happen now? Time travel is complicated.”

“It sounds it.”

“You also told me that, when we met you thought I was putting that accent on.”

A beat passes.

“Time travel, Jon?”

“I know.”

“So-”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know the lottery numbers,” he says, preemptively. He doesn’t mention that he could definitely Know them. That’s a whole other can of worms that he doesn’t particularly want to open. He remembers her reaction to him waking up from that coma, and whilst that was probably more specifically related to him being dead for six months, then getting up a little too much like that cadaver, he still doesn’t want to push things.

“I wasn’t going to ask that. Why did I tell you about that? I haven’t told anyone- I didn’t tell you, and we dated for-”

“Three years, six months and a day.”

“Huh,” she says, blinking, “You counted?”

“I didn’t need to- look I’m getting to that. But first- you have a friend, Melanie King- has she done the shoot at the Cambridge Military Hospital yet?”

“That’s not until next week. Wait, why? And why Melanie?”

“She’s going to see something she can’t explain- not the same thing as your cadaver-”

“I wouldn’t call it my cadaver, Jon.”

“I’m sorry, Georgie.”

This causes all of the gears that had been whirring in her head to grind to a halt. Jonathan Sims, apologising for something so small? Little abrasive things adding up that he refused to apologise for, little moments of callousness- they hadn’t been the sole cause of their relationship’s collapse, but they certainly hadn’t helped. She’d known what he was like, going into what they had, but he’d gotten worse and worse as things began to fall apart, the occasional snide remark turning into being standoffish and snapping at everything and it seemed every other word they had exchanged had been in argument.

The Jonathan Sims sitting in front of her is like a whole different person. He still holds himself tight and close, but it seems to be less of hostility and more a fear of taking up too much space, making himself too obtrusive.

Her voice is soft as she speaks.

“What happened, Jon?”

He hesitates, then relents.

“A lot, Georgie. It’s been years, and what happened wasn’t kind to any of us.”

And he tells her all about the Cambridge Military Hospital, how Melanie saw what remained of Sarah Baldwin just casually reattaching her arm, how she’d lost her show and clung on tight to chasing down ghosts across the world, finding evidence. Perhaps some part of her had hoped that with the right evidence, she would be able to have her show again, or at least that respect that she had lost, ranting about ghosts and trains. Or perhaps she had simply been clinging to the idea that if she followed each thread back to their source she’d find a little bit of peace from the anger that had always flown through her, only to be exacerbated by that bullet. 

Jon tells her about the Magnus Institute, how he’d been trapped there with his assistants (the lost and pained look at the name “Martin” didn’t go entirely unnoticed. Jon was many things, but subtle was not one of them). How Melanie had been trapped, as that bullet fed her seething anger and hatred, like a beast caged and pacing and snapping at anyone who came close. How close she’d come to killing. What would have happened if he hadn’t discovered it soon enough.

And then her recovery, her escape from the archives. What she’d had to do to escape. Georgie didn’t feel fear, but the idea of that- of gouging out her- well, it was enough to make even her recoil.

“Fuck.”

Jon laughs weakly.

“Yeah.”

There’s a long silence after that. Then-

“I’ll call her.”

Jon breathes a sigh of relief, and takes a sip of his tea. 

It’s already started to go cold.

\-------------------

One very long hour later, there’s a knocking at the door. He holds the Admiral as Georgie races out of the kitchen, mugs of tea in hand and sets them down on the coffee table, before racing past Jon and to the entryway. She opens it, and there’s Melanie- god, she looks so young. Her hair is long, and well cared for, nothing like the scraggly bob she’d kept during her time at the institute. She looked like she’d been sleeping, which was more than he could say for any of the archives staff during that time, and her clothes are neatly pressed and somewhat fashionable.

He remembers her and Georgie after the ritual and the lines of worry and scars that had plagued her face then aren’t there. It’s like a whole other person, and he has to stop himself from staring when she looks down the corridor and into the living room, and sees him.

He Knows in that moment that the weight of the recognition and regret in his eyes is somewhat unnerving as he looks away.

“So. You’re Jon.”

“I- ah, I am.”

She looks at him for a long while, then- oh no. Recognition sparks in her eyes.

“Wait a moment-”

“No I-”

“You’re- oh, what did Georgie call you-”

“Quite honestly, I don’t want to know.”

“You’re,” she pauses, to emphasise the choice words she has decided not to say, “Jon.”

“...Yes.”

She tilts her head, but a smile is playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Asshole ex Jon.”

“Melanie!” Georgie finally steps in, firmly putting an end to that train of thought.

“Sorry,” says Melanie, not looking very sorry at all, ”But seriously, what does your ex have to do with any of this, Georgie?”

She stares at him, scrutinising his every feature, but when her gaze settles on his eyes, she flinches a little bit.

“Oh, no.”

And Jon suddenly Knows why recognition and horror crosses her face as she stares.

“You’ve been having dreams, haven’t you?”

He can’t stop it now- images of that abandoned hospital flicker through his mind- a vague sense of wrongness he has come to associate with the Stranger- the “something is not right something is not right” that echoes through him. And he watches it. He watched for years. He has barely seen a glimpse since returning through time. After all, it hasn’t happened yet. The fact that Melanie has seen anything at all is… concerning, to say the least.

He opts for being comforting.

“I am sorry Melanie, but it shouldn’t be as bad after next week. Provided that you don’t do something stupid and go investigate the hospital anyway.” He momentarily curses how sharp that comes out, but barrels on anyway. “You should be fine.”

He looks around and both Georgie and Melanie are staring at him, Melanie’s face pale and drawn. Oh. He’s forgotten to wait for an answer again. So much for comforting.

“I didn’t say anything about dreams.”

He sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

“How did you know I was having those weird dreams?”

“He’s from the future,” Georgie chimes in helpfully. “He knows things about me that are straight up impossible for anyone to know, unless I told him. And I know Jon. He’s not one to go around making things up for the hell of it. If he’s gotten as far as talking to me, a person he’s barely spoken to in years, he’s being serious.”

Melanie blinks. She blinks again. And her expression shifts into a frown.

“Oh, come on. I know we run ghost shows, so you think you can just tell us anything and have us believe it, but that’s too much,” she says, turning to Georgie, “That’s too much, right?”

Georgie shrugs.

“I have no reason not to believe him. I’ve seen stranger things.”

Melanie turns to Jon, exasperated.

“Come on.”

The Admiral bristles under the unwanted attention, forcing Jon to resume his duties in stroking the cat’s large, fluffy head as he speaks.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I didn’t even meet you through Georgie, the first time around. I worked for the Magnus Institute, and you gave a statement, after you saw something you couldn’t explain and no one would believe you. I was rude and dismissive, but you told me your story. That’s why you have the dreams- they were real nightmares the first time around, reliving the trauma of that night at the Cambridge Military Hospital. And I was there, watching, every single night. I couldn’t intervene at all. But this time, since after next week there’ll be no chance of it happening, the dreams should go away. The Eye only cares about things that actually happened.”

There’s a long silence as everyone in the room processes.

“Fucking hell.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Tell me what was going to happen, the first time. What happened to me that you’re trying to stop? Because I know for a fact that I’m not the only person who would have given a statement to the Magnus Institute in that time, and you don’t seem the type to go around fixing absolutely everyone’s problems. Why me?”

“Are you one hundred percent sure that you want to know?”

Melanie is resolute.

“Yes.”

And so he tells her, putting emphasis on the hospital, and the trains. He can’t have her going around getting shot by ghosts again, after all. And he tells her about the bullet, and how she’d been trapped in the Institute with the rest of them. That she was the only one who made it out alive, who managed to recover at least partially from her time there. He doesn’t tell her about the end of the world.

“So… That’s it. That’s what happened.”

There’s a long and awkward silence as both Jon and Georgie try to subtly watch for Melanie’s reaction. Being the avatar of something that delights in being caught watching, one of them is more successful than the other.

Melanie takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to go make some tea and clear my head,” she announces. She abruptly rises from her seat, dusts the long ginger cat hair from her skirt, and briskly walks to the kitchen.   
“You’re still on Georgie’s tea chart, Jon. If that's still how you take your tea, it's honestly a travesty. Want any?”

“I-”

She doesn’t wait for an answer as she strides into the next room and closes the door with a heavy slam.

“Well, that could have gone worse,” Georgie offers, “She can be properly stubborn.”

“Oh believe me, I’m aware.”

They both wince in sync as they hear the sound of a mug shattering on the tiled floor, followed by muffled cursing, and Georgie rushes off to help clean up.

Jon sighs. If luck and Melanie’s good sense prevail, that’s another problem off his list. He hopes that this will keep Melanie away from the Fears. At the very least, it should stop her from getting quite so involved as she was the first time around.

A little bit of weight leaves Jon’s chest, and he allows himself to relax a little more, as The Admiral purrs on his lap. It’s hard to feel quite so stressed with a cat on his lap, after all. Especially one as good as this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a bit of a monster.


	9. Frozen in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naomi Herne is warned.

Naomi Herne’s dreams have been lonely, scattered with fog. Visions of an empty grave, waiting for her. She knows it’s for her, every time. She still doesn’t feel warm, even as consciousness creeps. She doesn’t know why, but as she rolls over and basks in her sleeping fiance’s warmth, the mist seems to linger at the edges of her vision. As she lies there though, the sheer emptiness, the lonely chill of that empty field seeps away, and Evan turns over. As he sees her there, wide awake and staring at the wall, his face scrunches in worry. 

“Naomi?”

She turns away, pulling the thick blankets with her and leaving Evan’s chest cold.  
“M' fine,” she mumbles from underneath the covers, still warm from the hot water bottle her fiance keeps.

He’d always been just a little bit colder than her. When he’d come in from the cold after a long day, to find her at home, he would find her in the living room, curled up on the couch alone. He would sneak up, take her hands into his oh-so-lovingly- and laugh at the squeal of “cold!”

Naomi always got him back for that, of course. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Evan’s hands were chilly even now, as he put his hand on her shoulder.

“Naomi, I’ve seen you lying awake. I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

She lets out a big, over dramatic sigh.  
“I just want to go back to sleep.”

“Naomi, you haven’t been sleeping. That’s the whole-”

She sags a little, and lets Evan sweep her into a hug, swaddled as she is in blankets.  
“-Okay, okay, Evan. I’ve just been having nightmares, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine, really.”

He kisses her on the forehead and she leans up into it.

“It’s just I keep having these dreams about this big house that I’ve never been to, and all these stuffy people that I can’t for the life of me remember the faces of and there’s all this mist and a graveyard. And it’s lonely, Evan. I keep having these dreams and I always feel just- so alone. Then I wake up, and you’re here, and it’s fine, but…”

Evan’s hand is stiff and he’s gone entirely still.  
“But?”

She takes in a shaky breath.  
“I’m just imagining it. It’s just the nightmares, but when I wake, sometimes it’s like the room is full of fog and- Evan? Evan, what did I say?”

His face has gone ashen grey, and his hand is shaking a little around her waist.  
“I-”

She pulls away, turning to look at him properly.  
“Evan? Did I say something wrong?”

“You didn’t do- You didn’t do anything. It’s- this is my fault. My family- I’ll deal with it,” he says, clearly shaken.

Naomi reaches out for his hand.  
“I don’t understand,” she says, “It’s just a nightmare, isn’t it?”

“I hope it is,” he says, as he pulls himself out of bed and into his clothes, “But these things are never that easy. My family, for all their talk of isolation and loneliness, apparently don’t take well to me cutting them off. Go figure, right?”

“Evan?”

“We… We need to talk about my family. I should have told you, but I was really, really hoping that they’d respect that I was my own person and needed to go my own way. But no, the second that ‘my own way’ starts to not be completely isolated, they start with… this.” Evan looks very tired.

She puts on a smile.  
“Is this the part where I learn that you were secretly in the mafia, and your entire identity is carefully structured to hide you from their prying eyes?” She says jokingly.

He doesn’t say anything.

She sits up suddenly, banging her head against the angled ceiling. She lies back down and stares upwards, pulling the blankets closer around her.  
“Oh my god, Evan.”

“...It’s not quite like that.”

“The fact that you had to give that so much thought-”

”It’s not really like that I just-

”Have they killed people, Evan?”

He looks away.

“Fuck,” says Naomi under her breath,”This is far too much for-” she checks the clock- ”Six in the morning.”

They’re silent for a good, long time.

“Naomi, my family aren’t… They aren’t human.”

“So, what, I’m dating an alien?” She says, in a weak attempt to gain back some control of the conversation.

He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his mouth flattens to a thin line, and he opens his mouth and closes it a few times, making quiet sounds as he struggles to speak, to articulate.  
“I mean it. I’m human enough- we’re all born human- but they all made the choice to become something else. Something dangerous, and cold and completely callous about anyone who isn’t them. And if you’re not one of them, they don’t care, Naomi. It’s hardly better if you’re with them, but at least you get the family funds. And no one gets out, not really.” He sighs, and looks at the last wisps of mist in the room. “Some days I’m not sure I did.”

She isn’t sure what to say to that.

“Naomi, I’m scared. I’m scared that one day I’m going to wake up and be alone, and they’ll come back for me.”

“They… It sounds like a cult, Evan.”

“It is, I think. It’s just all the worse for the thing they worship, what they do- It all being real. All the more dangerous.”

“Evan…”

He folds in on himself a little.  
“But why would you believe that. It sounds crazy- I know it does.”

Her heart breaks to see him this way.

“I believe you Evan, or at least I think I do. It’s just… a lot.” 

Evan laughed mirthlessly.  
“Isn’t family always.”

“We’ll just leave them off the guest list then. Same as my dad.”

“You’d better keep your mum on though. I don’t think I could survive a reception without her cooking.”

“Of course! There’s no way we could keep her away. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“And we wouldn’t get any of her strudel.”

She nods sagely.  
“And we wouldn’t get any of her strudel.”

Evan’s smile flickers. He takes in a long, deep breath, staring straight ahead.  
“But seriously, Naomi. My family worships loneliness. Or maybe the fear of it? I never cared that much for that side of family life, and they were pretty content to leave me alone to do my own thing. But fog, that mist, the cold- I think that luck’s run out. We’re going to have to be careful, if they’ve taken an interest in you.”

“What do you think they’re going to do?”

He sighs. “I don’t know. But whatever it is, it won’t be good.”

Naomi stares at the ceiling, thinking. She’d never been one for human company before Evan, but the idea that in loving this man she had gotten herself all caught up in some ridiculous cult that dealt in loneliness, of all the most depressing things. She’d never pried about his family, happy to leave it at the knowledge that they were rich and rather unpleasant. She really hadn’t expected that the one man she didn’t feel lonely around was the progeny of monsters that isolated the vulnerable as they tore apart their lives. 

She turns to look at her fiance. His hair wafts around his face, brown curls catching the sunlight that had begun to creep in through the blinds as they had spoken, and Naomi can’t help the soft smile that tugs at her lips as she gazes up at him. No, she won’t be giving this one up without a fight.  
“You said they deal in loneliness- right, Evan?”

“Yes?”

“Then,” she says, pulling him close, “We’ll just have to make sure we’re not alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Holy crap I started writing this in March. I got somewhat distracted- I've started another longfic amongst other projects. Oops.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I really appreciate your comments, you've been lovely.


	10. A Moment to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Tim have their weekly movie night.

Sasha runs through the rain, laughing at some joke Tim makes (in rather poor taste, but all the same). Her umbrella broke three blocks ago, collapsing on the two of them, and now they hurry across London. The rain beats at their backs, soaking through her woolen coat and into her shirt. Every now and then a car goes past and splashes them, but it doesn’t really matter- they’re already soaked. The lights of the city reflect in the rain-slick street and the umbrellas of commuters create a canopy as they bustle into the Underground.

Inside the station, it’s busy and close and hot, but as Sasha and Tim make their way home, their thoughts are far away from the rush-hour crowds. It’s been a long day at work, sure- but Sasha has pizza dough in the machine, and toppings in the fridge. Tonight is movie night, and for all the terror in the world, nothing can stop them from binging terrible movies and tearing them to pieces, slices of pizza in hand. It’s Friday night, and even the morning holds little threat for them. 

There’s a buzz between them as Sasha fumbles with the keys in her hands, shaking with the damp chill. Tim lifts his make-shift shelter of his suit blazer above their heads, and suddenly the door is moving and the warmth of the hallway flushes their faces and the heat knocks at the chill in their hands. 

Sasha wastes no time in kicking off her flats, and tossing the keys onto the hook by the door. She drapes her coat over the radiator, and makes her way inside, leaving little puddles on the floor where her tights have been.

“Leave your stuff in the hallway, Tim,” she calls back to him, as he pulls off his brogues in the hall, “I’ll see if I have a change of clothes in your size.”

“You won’t!”

Sasha quickly turns the oven up to 180 and rolls up her tights into a soggy ball in her hand. As she enters her bedroom, she throws them into the laundry basket and grabs a towel and a clean change of clothes- after a day of suits and uncomfortable shoes, the relief of slipping into leggings and a dry graphic tee is palpable. She picks out an oversized shirt that she uses as pyjamas, and some old jeans left years back by some ex. They look something like Tim’s size, so she puts them over her arm, and goes back to the kitchen, where Tim is towelling his face off with a bit of kitchen roll. 

She snorts with barely-concealed laughter, as he turns, his damp hair practically standing on end from his attempts to get the water out.  
“I have actual towels you know, Tim.”

He stares at her wide-eyed, caught in the act, then quickly recovers, grinning at her with that lopsided smile of his.  
“Nah, I think I just look sexier this way.”

“Sure you do. I got you a change of clothes, if they fit,” she says, holding up the top and jeans.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking them. He looks them over. “Wait, why do you have jeans in my size?”

“A lady never kisses and tells.”

His grin widens as he raises an eyebrow.  
“Oh yeah? And what about you, Sasha?”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” she says over her shoulder as she walks out, hand up in a gesture of mock dismissal. “I’ll go get the telly set up. You- go get dry.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, with an equally joking salute.

A muffled laugh can be heard from across the flat.

\------  
An hour later, the two of them are sprawled out across the sofa and beanbag in Sasha’s living room, pizza in hand, and some truly awful cinema on their screen. It’s probably the most relaxed they’ve been since the whole thing started- usually movie night is overshadowed by some horrifying new revelation, but having it as a weekly fixture rather than heralded by some new doom and gloom brings a new life to it- no terror, no new trauma to work through. Just fresh, homemade pizza (topped with a truly shocking amount of cheese) and something to laugh at that isn’t their own misfortune. 

Tim doesn’t know what he’d do without this- all the trauma of the circus had laid buried for years- sure, he had started his time at the Institute with the plan to find the Circus of the Other and make them pay- but after years of nothing, no information and no plan, he had begun to think of other things- promotions, career, maybe even going as far as dating. It wasn’t gone, but it had started to be buried under the weight of the years, the new experiences. He had the occasional nightmare, and the shaking came back every time he passed the spinning lights and playful tunes of the Christmas Market’s merry-go-round, but he hadn’t had it at the front of his thoughts in years.

Of course, with Elias’- Jonah’s intervention, the screaming night terrors are back in full force. There’s a reason Tim has spent so much time around Sasha lately- her presence just… grounds him. Her laugh at his stupid, corny jokes, his references to whatever corny 80’s flick they’d seen last. Her soft hands, shaping dough into a pizza base. And of course she catches him staring- she’s always been a perceptive woman. They laugh it off every time, but Tim knows she sees right through him.

He watches her flick a hair out of her face, in the way of pizza, and woe betide anything that gets between her and the slice, still steaming as it comes out of the oven. He doesn’t know how she holds it like that- his slice lies on his plate still, far too hot to touch. A thought comes over him then, that leaves him blushing.

Of course Sasha notices. 

“Tim? We’re watching the movie, not SashaCam.”

He goes redder. He’s been caught.  
“Oops.”

“Tim-”

“I know, I know, I’m not the love interest in the Sasha James story, I didn’t mean to- Let’s just eat our pizza.”

Now it's her turn to blush.  
“I was going to say you have some sauce on your face.”

It is very obvious that was not, in fact, what she was going to say.

“Oh.”

“And I think... I like your company Tim.”

“Wuh?” He says, very intelligently. 

“We’ll just have to see about the rest, now won’t we? Let’s just make sure you don’t get cut after episode one, first.”

“Oh, back to that again? Guess I’ll just have to survive.”

“I guess you will.”

Sasha’s phone buzzes. She sighs, loudly.  
“Oh, for crying out loud. I forgot to switch it off after work.” She fiddles with her phone and opens her messaging app.

Tim leans over, trying to get a look at her messages as Sasha slaps him away playfully.  
“What does the boss want?”

The mirth in Sasha’s face drains all at once as she finally gets the message up. Her eyes dart back and forth across the screen as she reads and, from her expression, it isn’t good news. She looks up, making purposeful eye contact with Tim.  
“We need to go back in.”

\------

The four of them stand in the tunnels once more. Sasha checks her watch, but it reads as somewhere around six o’ clock- the time she’d left the office. She bites back a groan. It must have gotten caught in the rain shower. Either way, it’s much later than she’d like to be at the Institute, much less the creepy, damp tunnels. Tunnels that have walls covered in paper, stuck together in the kind of ridiculous-looking conspiracy web she’s only ever seen in those terrible spy flicks, when they find some dead agent’s hideout. It looks suitably beaten up, like there’s been a fight there too, but she suspects that it’s just Jon’s frantic lack of organisation.

“Seriously, Jon, do you ever leave?” She complains. Normally, she takes these things with a lot more grace. Normally, she’s not forced to slog her way back through the Underground wearing clothes that were supposed to be dry, if not for the complete lack of umbrella in the driving rain. Another bundle for the laundry.

Off to a great start already, Sasha thinks to herself. And not just because the last time they were all in these tunnels, she found out that the world was so much wider, and so much more fearful than she could have ever imagined. Also she was supposed to have died. There was that, too. So, all in all, a fantastic way to start a conversation. Brilliant.

Tim’s face is unreadable, standing there in the dark. She slips her hand into his, giving it a squeeze and he shoots her a grateful smile for the small comfort. The tension in his shoulders settles almost imperceptibly as he turns his head to look around the small room below the Institute.

Sasha follows suit, glancing around. The room they’re in is dingy and small, a little hideaway deep in the tunnels. There’s a foul smell in the air that’s difficult to place, until she notices the dark, reddish patches on the floor and the stained desk that takes up the centre of the circular chamber. 

Martin is quiet. It isn’t his usual quiet- caught somewhere between nervous energy and overwhelming desire to stay out of the way, be unobtrusive. No, this quiet is solemn. The quietness has weight here, and he seems to understand some gravity to the situation that’s lost on Sasha, recently arrived and uninformed. It looks like Jon confided in Martin first- a strange sight a month or so back, but now? 

Jon, too, looks troubled. To be fair to him, Jon always looks troubled these days over one thing or another. Considering the things he’s seen, she’s not all that surprised. And she’s seen the way he stares at Martin, expression caught somewhere between longing and grief. She wishes she could do something to help, but that’s a conversation that she can’t force on them. Whatever they decide, they’ll have to choose for themselves. Anyway, romance or lack thereof is hardly the greatest of their worries. Even ignoring the deep lines of worry on Jon’s face, the fact that he’s called them back to this place is enough to send Sasha’s thoughts racing. 

She squeezes Tim’s hand in hers, clammy as it is in the cold damp of the tunnels. It’s shaking- except no, the shaking is her. She’s genuinely afraid.

She tries again.  
“Jon, why did you-”

He looks at her, at all of them, then back to his wall of frantic scribblings and pictures. He pulls aside the paper, and with Martin’s help pries a thick wooden board away from the stone. Behind it is lighter fluid, petrol- it’s stacked up high, and there’s even a few blocks of what looks suspiciously like plastic explosives. Sasha blanches, and Tim reflexively steps back. It looks like Jon’s been stockpiling anything and everything flammable he could get his hands on. It’s honestly impressive, and Sasha tries not to think about how Jon went about acquiring half of it.  
She’s about to ask, to demand any kind of explanation when-

“I’m going to destroy the Institute,” Jon says, resolve heavy on his face. “We’re going to end it. Tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


End file.
